


My Home is Here

by TheDemonInside



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, F/M, Hurt Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, Near Death Experiences, Torture, Violence, Whump, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDemonInside/pseuds/TheDemonInside
Summary: The Goddess of all creation is getting impatient with her wayward son. She desperately wants to return to Heaven and she'll stop at nothing to make him take her there- and stay. Yet he continues to refuse to call Heaven home so she turns her tactics a little more violent.WARNING: TORTURE, PAIN AND ANGST you have been warned :)
Relationships: Chloe Decker & Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 39
Kudos: 123





	1. Heaven Is No Home Of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys if you clicked on this fic then I bet you sinners all love torturing our favorite characters just like me? Well it's no sin to placate these desires so here's a little idea I cooked up about Charlotte torturing Lucifer.  
> The second chapter will include the hurt/comfort with Chloe taking good care of our poor devil.  
> Enjoy my fellow friends :)

“Lucifer!” A strong, commanding voice rings across the penthouse.

“Mum,” the devil in question replies, not turning from his seat at the piano.

“Time is running out son. We must hurry. You must get the sword working and soon. Then we can all go home!”

“When will you get it mother? I’m not going back! Heaven is not my home!” Lucifer snaps.

Footsteps cross over to him, pausing a small distance behind him. He can feel the tension on the air- the anger carefully tucked away behind his mother’s calm mask. A hand sets on his shoulder, turning him to face her, he refuses to meet her eyes, refuses to even acknowledge that she is still there.

“Lucifer! Look at me!” She demands of him but he stays stoic.

There is no warning when the hit comes- balled up fist clocking him solid about the jaw, his head snapping to the side. Normally such thing would not hurt him unless the detective was around, not even from his mother, the Goddess of all creation- which meant she is getting stronger. Finally he risks glancing up.

Pure anger fills her eyes, hatred and fury packed into one fiery glare. His eyes narrow, glaring back as he makes to get up from the stool he was perched on. Only she shoves him back down, him slumping ungraciously back against the piano, keys smashing in a catastrophic symphony of noise.

“You will take me back home,” his mother growls.

“You are more than welcome to cross those gates yourself, mum. But I am never stepping foot in that place again,” he states calmly, coldly.

“But you have to; you’re the Lightbringer!” a note of madness leaks into her tone.

“Mum,” He snarls pointedly, “I. Am. Not. Going. Back,”

There is a moment where neither moves, neither speaks. They only stare at each other with equal levels of frustration and hatred.

“I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this my son,” the goddess finally speaks, voice dangerously soft.

“What are you going to do? Torture me? Kill me? String me up and abandon me to the vultures? What can you do? I will never abide to you mother,” Lucifer strikes back, but the venom in his voice is weakened by the edge of fear that makes appearance in his furrowed brows.

His mother stalks forward, the hunger in her eyes much like that of a big cat, desperate for the kill. She places her left hand back on his shoulder and he freezes, feeling the power she now possess for himself. He almost throws himself at her feet for fear of what she will do. Her other hand coming up in a fist and punching him across the temple, hard enough to send him sprawling across the floor.

He crawls backwards, desperately wishing the world to stop spinning so that he may get up and fight. But everything is the wrong way up and he can see a blurry pair of heeled boots approaching, they stop a short distance from him and then one is gone and there is a flare of pain up his ribs. Even when both boots are in view again, the fire continues ravaging his chest. He wheezes out a painful breath and scrambles to support his weight on his hands.

A grip on the scruff of his shirt drags him roughly upright, ribs scraping against each other in protest, knuckles digging in the back of his neck. He’s vaguely aware that his mother is in front of him, smiling in his face, before he is thrown back into the wall, head cracking loudly against the stone. Her hand is on his throat, squeezing tight, and if he couldn’t breathe before, it’s certainly impossible now. He grabs at her wrists, trying to prize her off him, but it’s a futile attempt and soon what little vision he had is fading completely.

Just as he’s about to give in to the sweet escape of unconsciousness though, the grip is removed and he drops bonelessly down the wall, slouched unceremoniously with the bruised side of his face pressed painfully against the floor. Air whistles back into his lungs and he almost lets out a breathy sigh of relief when his mother’s presence moves away. Only, it’s back too soon, the smudge of her silhouette crouching beside him. He can tell that he’s being judged- he wants to run, far away from her, but his back is still pressed against the wall and his lungs are still burning and his head is still pounding.

But then the most unexpected thing happens: gentle fingers are carding through his hair. The touch is so soft and kind that he finds himself leaning into it without thinking, relishing in the affection he’d been starved of for so long.

“Oh Lucifer. Why do you make me do this?” Her voice sounds quiet and pained, but he can hear the lie twisting through it- he knows she’s enjoying this.

“Go… Back to… Hell,” he manages to spit out at her.

Then she snaps. The fingers in his hair turn cruel, knotting about the curled strands and dragging him into a seated position. She drags his head back, his Adams apple bobbing in fear, his eyes are low, heavily lidded as she brings one hand to cup his bruising cheek.

“It’s only going to get so much worst for you my son,” she speaks lowly, trailing fingers down his cheek.

For a moment nothing happens. The hands leave and his chin drops to his chest. Nothing happens. And then there is a sudden blinding pain right through his chest to his very essence, his vary grace. Burning and slicing as it is shredded and molded by another cruel power. He shudders and writhes in agony, head thrown back into the wall again, eyes wide and filled with pain and terror. The power doesn’t leave- it grips into his grace, dragging it from his being. He fights it. He fights hard, trying to force the intruding force out but the pain is overwhelming and he can feel himself fading.

Eventually the pain leaves and he’s left gasping and moaning on the edge of consciousness. To each side he can feel the weight of his wings, heavy and limp on the floor, sprawled in a shuddering mess of feathers. The appendages tremble with exertion, aches spreading as violent jolts of electricity across their width. He tries to draw them in closer to himself, away from the predator that eyes them hungrily from above him, but they refuse to co-operate, barely fluttering as he wills them behind his back.

His mother only grins- he can see the animal desire behind it from under half mast eyelids, and he knows that there is only more torture to come. She approaches almost hesitantly at first but then more assuredly when she meets no more resistance. She kneels in-front of him and reaches out a hand- Lucifer closes his eyes in acceptance, silently wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness. The relief doesn’t come. Instead there is a foreign touch on his wings, fingers carding through feathers, easing the sore and aching burdens. Finally, Lucifer slouches, too tired to be suspicious anymore, the kind touch continuing to comfort his pains.

Suddenly, the touch is no longer kind; the fingers curl about silken feathers and tug, tearing them out with little care and sending sharp stabs of agony up the wing. Lucifer flinches back but the hands remain, both now buried in his right ring, ripping the feathers from the skin and sending splatters of blood across the marble. He carefully steels himself, biting his lip to keep from gasping, hands clenched tightly by his sides as he tries to endure all that his body is feeling.

However, try as he might, he cannot stop the scream that tears from his throat when the hands settle firmly on the ridge of his wing and pull down in opposite directions, effectively snapping the bone in two. He whimpers before he can stop himself as her hands run down his wings to his shoulders, pulling on it slightly to twist him towards her. Too late he realizes what she’s doing as her grip tightens about the joint and tugs sharply, dislocating the thing entirely from his back, his scream breaking the silence again.

“Oh my dear boy,” She says almost gently when he has quieted again, “You know how to make this stop,”

Her hands are on his face again, pretending to care. But he won’t fool for it, he won’t agree to her, he won’t be going back. Ever so slightly he shakes his head and the soft touch is instantly gone again. She doesn’t speak any other words, only pulls back and moves to retrieve something Lucifer can’t see. When the pain comes- he knows what it is: Azrael’s blade. She tears it through both wings over and over, ignoring his desperate screams and cries. By the time the blade is dropped his eyes are closed, jaw clenched so tightly he’s sure it will ache for weeks, shaking and whimpering as wave after wave of pain sweep over him. He refuses to look at his wings, but from the fire that roars up them and engulfs them in complete brutality, he gathers that they look something dreadful.

“Come now son, you are not so prideful as to carry on like this?” his mother sneers from somewhere to the left.

He turns his head towards where he thinks she is and spits blood on the floor. His lips pulled back he lets out an animal snarl, the only act of defiance he can manage, but one he hopes will have added effect from his blood stained teeth and eyes he’s certain are glowing red; how dare she defile him in this manner! All effort at toughness is broken though when he collapses into a fit of coughing, ribs searing in complaint as he hacks another pool of blood into the growing red sea on the floor. His mother only laughs as she leans over him again, pulling his head back by his hair, blood dripping down his chin and bruising throat.

“You have no idea what’s coming for you Lucifer,” she growls, leaning close to his ear.

Her left hand wraps about his throat again squeezing tight and he almost laughs that she thinks _this_ is the worst she has done to him. But then the worst hits him. His mother’s eyes glow white with power and suddenly every part of him is in more agony than all of Hell’s tortures can put together. Every nerve is on fire, his blood boiling, muscles seizing and chest constricting further as sheer agony rips through his being. His grace cowering and crying out as the torment wraps itself about its already mangled form.

The torture continues for the longest minutes of his life. Yet when it finally leaves, it comes back to strike again with a vengeance like no other. Lucifer feels himself slipping, the fires of Hell seeming much closer now, then he’s in the penthouse again, curled up on the floor with his mother standing over him, hand still gripping his throat. It continues like this for a long time, over and over he hangs on the edge of death only to be yanked back into reality as the force is removed.

It feels like eons later when she throws him to the floor, broken wing curled under him protesting at the movement, his head hitting the hard floor where there should have been soft feathers to ease his fall. From this angle he can only see the shape of heeled boots walking about the apartment. He tries to open his swollen eye to see more, but quickly gives up. Instead he resorts to tracking her movements, pacing back and forth until finally she returns and he closes both eyes, fully expecting more pain to come. And it does, only not as he was expecting; Azrael’s blade has been reclaimed and is now plunged deep into his gut. He gasps and curls in on the pain, trembling hand moving to try and weakly tug at the blade handle.

“I wouldn’t do that Samael. You may survive if you don’t,” he can hear the sadistic grin in his mother’s tone and only hisses a pained gasp through his teeth.

“Go ‘o ‘ell” he mumbles out incoherently, blood bubbling pass his lips in a dark stream as he closes his eyes again, fully expecting death to greet him.

“Oh I don’t think so,” He faintly hears his mother say, followed by silence and more silence and more silence, other than his own wheezing attempts at breathing- then he thinks the elevator dings, but he’s unsure, as finally the darkness envelopes him.


	2. Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe finally comes to the rescue.  
> Warnings: Pain, angst, hurt, blood,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the long wait but it's finally here, chapter 2. Chloe finally comes in to save everyone's favorite Devil.  
> Obviously there's gonna be a lot of pain and angst and all the healing stuff in this chapter, though I suppose if your reading then that's really not going to bother any of you :))

When Chloe enters the penthouse she thinks he’s dead.

An hour earlier she had been called to a case, including strippers and prostitutes and large quantities of alcohol, which she thought Lucifer would enjoy very much. Except he hadn’t picked up- which wouldn’t be strange in itself, if it wasn’t that she’d been talking to him this morning about how the club was closed whilst he catalogued their stocks and any need for repairs. The doors were closed. He had no visitors and his phone was always in his suit pocket, never out of sight.

She couldn’t say she wouldn’t be surprised if she found that he had invited some friend into bed anyway despite his claims- that was just what you should expect with Lucifer- but something about this didn’t feel right. Nothing about _any_ of this felt right. Not the radio silence and most certainly not the awkward return of Lucifer’s step-mom, something is out of place with that woman, something dangerous and she doesn’t trust her one bit.

That’s how she finds herself standing nervously on the elevator on the way up to his penthouse, hoping against hope that she’ll find him up to one of his usual antics and be able to berate him on that later. She knew that hope was empty; the doors slide open and the first thing she sees is what she thinks is his corpse.

His normally commendable form is slumped on the floor by the far wall surrounded by what looks like an ocean of blood and tattered feathers. Feathers. From wings. Huge would-be-white wings drawn about him- or what’s left of them. Even from where she stands she can see that they’re shredded and torn beyond recognition, painted in several shades of crimson. Wings. Lucifer has wings. Lucifer the self-proclaimed devil. The devil. Right.

Many loose pieces come falling into place, many unexplained miracles simply being named just that. Her partner is the devil- but she does not feel afraid. Instead her heart goes out for him; her partner, the Lucifer she knows, would never deserve this. All he’s ever done is care and try to be of worth. And he was thrown into Hell for that. She wants to punch God; it’s so unfair- Lucifer is a good man, he’s been hurt and bullied and blamed for all things bad, but he isn’t bad.

Still, here they are. Chloe is in the same room as the Devil and all she wants to do is cradle him in her arms and tell him it will all be okay. She takes a breath and steps out the lift, taking a few uncertain strides into the penthouse. A trail catches her eye, splatterings of blood around the piano, streaks of red crossing the floor towards where her partner is curled up unmoving. She holds her breath as she approaches, afraid, but not of him; how could she be afraid of him? All he’s ever done is save her. No, she’s afraid for him. Because if he’s dead, she doesn’t know what she will do, if he’s dead, if he’s dead…

She crouches slowly beside him, fingers reaching out to press against his neck. She has to push his left wing away, the bedraggled limb splayed as if in protection and comfort. She tries to be gentle, barley brushing the broken feathers but the body below her shifts and whimpers anyway. She almost jumps back, surprised at the sound but also suddenly drowned in the rush of relief that he’s alive.

Now that she listens closely she can here the harsh, strangled intakes of breath he’s taking, each one wheezing and shallow. She bites her lip upon seeing the state of his face, his jaw to his cheek red with new bruising, an already scabbed cut running from his temple to his eyebrow, the eyes itself swollen shut. She kneels next to him now, uncaring that she’s ruining her jeans, hand coming up to gently brush his back his hair from his forehead. Below her the beaten man whimpers again, flinching away from the gentle touch, dark lashes flutter against his cheek and she barely hears the whispered, “Don’t”.

She frowns as she looks down at him, curled into himself, trembling with what she assumes is a mixture of pain and exhaustion. The wing that lays limply over his body shudders as a tremor of whatever agony he’s in overcomes him and he lets out a low whine.

“Lucifer?” She asks softly.

Her partner doesn’t reply instantly, so she returns her hands to carefully pushing back sweat slicked curls.

“Mother don’t. Don’t pretend. Just get it over with- kill me already,” Lucifer speaks dejectedly and it breaks her heart to hear him so defeated. Her hand stills and she freezes as she swipes her gaze across him- his mother did this, his own mother, anger fills her to her core but it is overwhelmed by sadness as her partner tries making himself smaller, tensing as if he expected her to hurt him.

“Lucifer. Lucifer, it’s only me, it’s Chloe. I’m not going to hurt you okay,” she states as calmly as she can manage.

Dark lashes flutter against his cheeks and then one dark eye is looking at her, full of betrayal and sadness and pain. Tears fill her own eyes at the uncertainty that lies there- the fear that he’s truly alone in this.

“Chloe,” he finally rasps.

“Yes,” she whispers, “Yes I’m here,”

“Shouldn’ be. Suppo’ be ‘way. Don’ wan’ you see m’go,” She leans forward at his words, brushing her lips softly against his temple.

“Don’t you leave me,” she whispers in his ear, “Don’t you dare. We’re going to fix this okay, just hang on now,”

“Chloe,” he shudders, dragging the broken wing from off his body, revealing the true extent of the damage. A blade embedded in his gut that she vaguely recognizes from the string of murders some weeks back, “go-”

He closes his eye again, a deep sigh passing his lips before filtering off into a weak bout of coughing. Chloe runs her fingers through his hair once more before gripping his arm firmly.

“Lucifer?” She asks in a tone much calmer than she feels, “We’ve got to move you to your bed, alright? We can make things better then, I’m not going anywhere okay? But do you think you can help me?”

The man blinks sluggishly at her and she thinks maybe she’s going to have to struggle through this for the both of them when he gives her a small nod and begins to push himself up. She rushes to aid him, wrapping one of his arms about her and wincing in sympathy as he whined lowly as they moved.

Eventually though, they are making small progress to the bedroom. Small stumbling steps that consist of Chloe mostly dragging 6 foot 3 of barely conscious angel across the penthouse. He is quiet and pliable in her hold which does not fill her with hope, being so completely opposite of her stubborn as a mule partner against crime. Now the only stubbornness she sees is the way he bites his lip to keep from voicing his pain.

Finally, after what seems like hours, they’re at the bedside. Chloe doesn’t bother stripping back the sheets, but rather sets about laying Lucifer atop them, though maneuvering 16 feet of wings proves a rather difficult task. When she is certain he is settled she moves her attention to dealing with the more pressing concerns of his injuries, trying to fight back the nausea at the amount of blood and the bruising that is starting to flower up under most of his skin.

Her hands ghost down his side, stopping to rest at the hilt of the blade, sticking sickeningly out his side. She steps back then, hurrying about the permanent in a desperate search for rags or clothes or towels, the latter of which she manages to find and grab from an expensive marble cupboard in his fancily tiled bathroom- she can’t help but to sigh at the extravagancy of it all- it being so very Lucifer. But she has little time to muse on this as the man, or Devil in question is currently bleeding out on his bed next door.

When she reaches his side again she wastes little time in gripping the handle of the blade and yanking it out, only whispering quiet apologies after he lets out a strangled cry of pain and she is pressing determinedly on the wound with one of the towels. She continues to speak to him as she waits for the bleeding to stop, her heart clenching at how his face contorts and he stifles moans of pain. She keeps the pressing down relentlessly, watching closely as slowly the blood stops pouring from the torn flesh.

She lets out a breathy sigh of relief upon seeing this, allowing herself a moment of hope before forcing it back down and turning to attend to his wings. Now, it was quite obvious to say that she knows nothing of avian physiology and repairing wings is not one of the things she had prepared for in run up to her becoming a detective. Then again, she’d never signed up to become partners with the devil either. Yet here they were, she’s attending to the devil, standing over the bedside of the king of hell, hovering by his broken wings trying to figure out how best to help them.

The blood- she thinks first, she must get rid of the blood. So she walks through the penthouse until she finds the kitchen, digging throughout the cupboards for a bowl which she then fills with warm water. When she returns, Lucifer seems asleep, eyes closed, breathing even except for the hitch every few breathes. The air still sounds to rasp through his lungs. But Chloe’s just grateful that he’s breathing at all at the moment.

With this small blessing she kneels beside him on the mattress and puts the bowl between them. Soaking one of the towels she hesitates as she approaches his left wing, the one looking most torn up and less white, she bites her bottom lip as she gently presses the towel against it and wipes down what remains of the feathers. Beneath her hand the appendage tenses but it doesn’t snap away, she doesn’t truly know if that’s because what she’s doing is okay or if it’s just incapable, but seeing as she can’t see that this doesn’t have to be done she continues.

After a small while she can feel a piercing gaze on her and when she turns her head she is met by an inky eye following her every move. She offers him a small smile before returning to her administrations, only just reaching the longest primaries. Taking a moment to ogle the size and beauty of one of the less damaged ones she reaches out to softly trail wondering fingertips down it. At this the wing shudders and Lucifer lets out a soft sound that can only be described as keening. 

Startled by this reaction she snaps her hand back and makes to apologize when she realizes the look of peace on the fallen angels face.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first okay? Then you can rest,” Lucifer barely lets out a huff of recognition in response, so she picks up the towel again.

The second wing turns out to be a much larger deal than the first; the entire thing hanging loosely from where it had been torn out from its joint, another break being glaringly obvious further up where the bone has torn through the skin. Working around these injuries as she attempts to clean away all the blood makes itself an excessively difficult and painful affair. She desperately wants to stop the pain she’s causing him, heart going out for him at his every cry of pain, every time he tenses and clenches his jaw to stop from making those sounds. At some point she must have started crying because her eyes sting and her cheeks fell flushed and her throat as if a lump is stuck in it, but eventually she stands back and the wings are completely clean of the poisonous crimson that stained them.

Lucifer lays unmoving other than the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he pants small and desperate breathes, eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling. Chloe hates to bring him away from whatever realm of unconsciousness he’s finding relief in but she knows she’ll need his help to tell her what to do next; she knows all bones need setting as soon as possible, but she’s never had to think about setting wings before.

“Lucifer,” She calls quietly, “Lucifer come back to me. I’m so sorry but I need your help”

She shakes his shoulder gently and deep brown eyes turn to look at her. Though they are clear, a ghost of pain still hides behind them and Chloe feels awful about having to ask him to be conscious to this.

“Hey,” She speaks softly, stroking back a lock of curls, “I’m sorry but can you tell me what to do about your wings,”

He blinks owlishly up at her before the wing beside her twitches and his face settles back into a grimace.

“Needs relocating” he mutters.

“I’d gathered that much,” she replies patiently, “How do I do it? I don’t want to hurt you,”

Lucifer sighs again, rolling himself agonizingly onto his left side, “Jus’ like a shol’er” he rasps, scrunching his eyes closed.

She smiles sadly at him as she leans closer, settling a hand firmly on each side of the joint. She’s not sure how this can be compared to fixing a shoulder but she follows the actions, wincing sympathetically as he moans in pain, shudders wreaking his body even after her hands return to brushing back his hair. He rolls bonelessly back onto his back, eyes glazed again, ragged pants surely causing hell for his chest.

“Lucifer?” Her voice is gentle, fearful.

His gaze turns to her, though not seeing her completely, “Jus’ nee’s wrappin’. Like… bir’..win’s”

Then he’s silent, thankfully unconscious. Chloe’s glad he’s finally found a retreat from the agony he must have been in. The only problem she has now is finding bandages to wrap the wing and his wound in. She hesitates before leaving his side, hand hovering over the pale side of his face, looking so peaceful now that he is unaware of the torture his body is feeling.

As she moves about the apartment she silently cursers her partner for seemingly keeping very little medical supplies around. It takes her a solid ten minutes of burring through cupboards before she finds an unsusceptible closet hidden by one of the bookcases. Inside she is unsurprised to find a healthy stash of alcohol and drugs, recently disturbed on the top shelf and dejectedly collecting dust on the bottom where she also finds discarded a roll of mostly unused bandages. She finds it weird that they are opened at all but who can say with Lucifer what he gets himself into?

When she reenters the bedroom the devil in question has not moved at all, still blessedly in a land of nothing. She’s ever thankfully as she grips the wing, as softly as she can, and pulls it in on itself, the bone grating harshly against itself. Wrapping it quickly and then also bandaging the wound on his stomach she tries to calm herself by repeatedly telling herself that at least he’ll be okay now. He’s not dead. He’s not going to die. He’ll be fine.

She still finds herself sitting by his side, his hand in hers, watching his chest like a hawk, rise and fall. Rise and fall. It means he’s not dead. She lets out a sigh of relief and begins to relax for the first time that day; he’s not dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned out longer than I expected so I'm thinking of writing a third chapter with more comfort if you guys want it?  
> Please let me know of any mistakes and I'll have them fixed.  
> I'm aware that I do often switch tenses accidentally so apologies in advance for that, I will change these if they're found.  
> Take care fellow demons :)

**Author's Note:**

> Well I hope this quenched your thirst for hurt Lucifer. Please let a this fellow demon know what you think and how I can improve. Also any preferences on how the second chapter will go may be considered and incorporated. :))


End file.
